


A Cat for Christmas

by inamac



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bloodplay, Dom/sub, F/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-03-07 04:25:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3161156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamac/pseuds/inamac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Dumbledore concerned with Order business over Christmas Dolores takes the opportunity to celebrate Christmas at Hogwarts in her own way.  Happily Argus Filch is able to meet her requirements.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cat for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amand_r](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amand_r/gifts).



**A Cat for Christmas ******

Dolores loved Christmas. It had always been her favourite time of year. She loved the _tradition_ of it all: the ritual stirring of the Christmas pudding on 'Stir up Sunday' (as a child she had always been allowed to drop the Enchanted Pea into the bowl); the decorations (especially the mistletoe bough); the presents (socks for Grandad, gloves for Granny, embroidered handkerchiefs for Nanny and the other relatives); the fairy on the tree (she would never forget the first time she had been allowed to perform the _Imperius_ and the _Petrifying Charm_ on the one she had caught in the Forest on her thirteenth Christmas, it had been such a disappointment to have to free it on Twelfth Night). And the food! She had a recipe for Brandy Snaps that could take an unwary finger off if you weren't careful. She made a note to pass it to the Hogwarts kitchen elves.

She was determined that despite the – resentment – her appointment to Hogwarts had caused she would ensure that the pupils and staff enjoyed a proper old fashioned Christmas. Yes, a traditional celebration would cheer everyone up and take their minds off the wicked lies being told by the Potter boy and his cronies. _He Who Must Not Be Named_ was no more real than Father Christmas. And it was the latter who would be visiting Hogwarts to distribute gifts for the **good** boys and girls. She looked forward to seeing their smiling, happy faces around the festive board on Christmas Day.

There was a knock at her door. She put down the pen on the inkstand, composed herself in her high-backed chair, and put what she believed was a welcoming smile on her face before she bade the caller "Enter."

Mr Filch, the school caretaker, shuffled into the room. His attitude was deferential and his eyes downcast, so her _faux benevolence_ was wasted.

"You wanted to see me, Madam Professor High Inquisitor Under Secretary?"

"Oh yes." The smile became genuine. It was so rare for her to receive the proper respect that was her due. "You may address me as _Highness_ as it is more convenient. I wanted to talk to you about the arrangements for Christmas. Things will be very different this year."

Filch looked apprehensive. He did not like 'different'. It usually meant more work for him.

"Since Dumbledore himself, and very few of the students will be here I do not think that it is appropriate to make too much fuss. For a start," she continued, "there will be only _one_ Christmas Tree. It will be in the Entrance Hall. One is quite sufficient. There is no need to denude the surrounding forest to fill the Great Hall with pine needles for the rest of the year."

An expression which might have been an attempt at a smile twitched Filch's lips. He had been complaining about that to Dumbledore for years.

"Furthermore," she continued, "I shall arrange for non-tamper charms to be applied around the dressed tree. Any student who attempts to interfere with the decorations will be severely dealt with."

The smile widened. No more _Exploding Baubles_ or _Tickling Tinsel_ or _Chilli Chocolate Coins_? That would fix those Wicked Weasels. "Will you be wanting the decorations for the Great Hall brought down from the attics, Highness?" Filch asked. He could hardly believe his luck. Getting the dusty boxes down without the use of magic was a task he hated almost as much as having to decorate the Great Hall. Dumbledore seemed to believe that garlands grew on trees.

"That would be a waste. There are very few pupils staying for the holidays. They can be occupied with making their own festive garlands." She gestured to the cupboard in one corner of the room. "I have plenty of spare parchment from those who have had to write me lines in detention. You may distribute it to the First and Second years, along with scissors and sufficient Spellotape to make chains. They should be instructed to put the scarlet side outwards, as it is a seasonally festive colour." She gave a little shiver, either at the concept of chains, or the thought of how the used parchment had come to be stained red. 

Filch caught the movement and interpreted it correctly. "Excuse me, Highness, but speaking of detention, I wondered whether you might consider giving me back the punishment duties I had under Headmaster Dippett. I still have all the old equipment. Keep it in good order too."

"Equipment, Mr Filch?"

"The canes, of course. Good whippy ones. And chains, for the truants, once they'd been caught in the mantraps. And," the expression might have been a smirk, smothered quickly, "some other devices of my own."

"That is most... interesting, Mr Filch. I have a class now, but I should like to... inspect... the equipment. Perhaps after dinner, if you have no other duties?" Her eyes were shining, and her voice shaking with suppressed eagerness.

"None at all, your Highness. I'll just take that parchment, shall I? And I'll be waiting for you after dinner."

She watched him take the pile of old essays from her cupboard. The Filch family, she thought, was old Wizarding stock. They'd served Hogwarts for centuries, usually as Professors and Board Members. It was good to find someone who respected the old traditions. An ally in this depraved place. She looked forward to the evening.

-oo00oo-

The tail of the kitten on the face of the clock on the wall of her boudoir was on the 4 and the ball of wool it was patting around the dial had just passed the 9 when Dolores finally set down her hairbrush, gave a last pat of powder to her nose and rose from her beflounced dressing table to settle her cardigan round her shoulders and depart for her meeting with Mr Filch.

A _Find Me_ charm led her from the well-travelled classrooms, staffrooms and dormitories of the school to an alternative world of service corridors, storerooms and mysterious plumbing. She finally found a secure, iron-bound magic-proof door labelled **Caretaker** not far from the entrance to the dungeons.

She wasn't sure what to expect as she knocked on the door. This part of the castle was rather squalid but, she had to admit, it was clean. The flagstones had been scrubbed and the ironwork blackleaded. The door opened on silent, oiled hinges and Filch stood aside to allow her to enter his domain.

The room looked cluttered, except that on second glance everything was neat and clean, precisely placed to be readily accessed if needed. A workman's room, with tools always to hand.

And such tools! She gave a little anticipatory shiver. If only she had known, when she was a student, that this place existed. Though now it was little more than a storeroom back then it would have been in use. She had never, alas, been caught in any act that would have merited corporal punishment. Her fascinated gaze passed over the equipment.

The rack was upended against one wall to emphasis the fact that it was in storage, ropes slack but dust-free and oiled. There were three St Andrew's Crosses, in increasing sizes, two stacked against the wall, the tallest, still bolted in place with its straps dangling, all bearing neat labels: Juniors, Seniors, and Staff.

Dolores' little pink tongue darted between her lips as her eyes flicked from that to the lines of hooks with their burden of chains and whips. Filch saw the reaction and rubbed his hands. It was so good to have someone who could appreciate his work.

"It all seems in very good order," she said with her usual primness. "We shall have to see whether the Governors would approve a return to the old disciplinary rules." Mr Crabbe and the Goyles would, she knew, and Mr Malfoy might be persuaded to talk the others round after a word with the Minister. Not that _their_ children would ever have to fear being sent here. This was for mudbloods and blood traitors.

"Thank you, Highness," he said. "I dust regular. Would you like to see the rest of the tools?"

She took a breath. It had been so long since little Dolores had been able to relax. Dare she? Why not. "Thank you. I should like that. And perhaps to have a demonstration?" She did not wait for an answer. A flick of her wand locked, bolted and hexed the door. It would not do to be disturbed while she was... inspecting... the equipment.

"Now," she continued, divesting herself of her cardigan, "pretend that I am a very naughty girl who has been sent to you for punishment. Show me how you would proceed."

He proceeded, quite correctly, by ordering her to remove her outer garments, and to bend over the horse. If she had had her clipboard she would have given him full marks for attitude. She did as he bid.

"How many strokes did your teacher order?" he asked when her round bottom was presented to him.

"Sss... six of the best?" It had been a long time, for both of them. Best to start traditionally. He obviously agreed, for the instrument he took from the chest against the wall was a thin whippy cane with a crooked handle.

"Six it is. Count." 

It had not been her practice to pad her knickers with parchment or schoolbooks, so she expected the sting, but the force came as a shock. Filch was definitely well practiced.

One. Fair and square across both buttocks.

Two. A little higher, angled right, he was definitely good at this.

Three. Angled left. He was marking her with a cross. That was right. She had done very wrong.

Four. It was stinging now, even through the cotton of her knickers. Next time she would wear silk.

F— Five. Too much. Not enough. Harder. Her eyes and her cunt were weeping.

Ssssssssix! Oh yes! More! She clenched and unclenched, but could not yet come. It wouldn't do to come over her Housemaster's desk....

She waited. The horse was padded, unlike the desk, and she did not have the hard edge pressing against her pubis, reinforcing her arousal. Nevertheless she was ready. She hoped that Filch would not disappoint.

He did not. There was a click as the cane was set down out of her sight on some metal surface. A calloused hand pulled down her knickers, just far enough to allow his cock to slide down her crack and into her cunt. She pulsed, anticipating the delicious pain to follow. She was no longer a tight virgin schoolgirl, but it had been a long time, and the head pushing against her was big and hard. She pushed back, taking him in, relishing his grunt of satisfaction. Then he took control. His hands came round to grasp the tits crushed against the suede surface of the horse, the buttons of his open fly pressed against her buttocks, marking her thrash-reddened skin as he began to pound into her.

She had made no sound, until that moment, well schooled by her old Housemaster, but when he came, filling her with Pureblood seed, she groaned with pleasure, and as he pulled out, spent, her eyes filled with tears.

She lay there for while, listening to the sounds of him cleaning himself and rearranging his clothing. At last he came round to confront her, gripped her chin in his wiry fingers and forced her to open her eyes and look up at him.

"You've been a naughty girl," he said. "And you've been punished for it. Do you promise that you won't do it again?"

Ritual. Tradition. She should say yes, shouldn't she? Yes, she would, no she wouldn't. It was all so confusing. What had she done? She pulled away, stood up, pulling her underwear back into place, hiding the evidence, and composed herself.

"Very good. Excellent. I'm pleased to see that you take your duties so seriously. But..." Her glance took in the crosses, the rack and the whips, "I should like to be very thorough. Perhaps after Christmas, when both our duties permit?"

He nodded. "I will wait. Highness."

-oo00oo-

On Christmas morning Dolores was surprised to find that there was a gift with her name under the Hogwarts tree. She could not imagine who would have put it there. Even at the office Christmas party she never got gifts. And with no family there were none under her tree at home. So who...?

She took it back to her room to open in privacy, anti-hex charms at the ready. There was every chance that some student (or even one of the teachers – she did not trust Minerva one inch) might have given her something booby-trapped as a joke. That had happened all too often.

The paper was covered in gambolling Christmas kittens, wearing red hats trimmed with fur. They were delightful. One had rather the look of Mr Filch's Mrs Norris. She had come to like Mrs Norris, the cat had a way of punishing students with those sharp claws that she appreciated. She undid the bow carefully, and opened the box at arm’s length. Nothing happened. A quick spell revealed that there was nothing magical about the gift. There was a card lying atop the tissue paper. 

_Something to look forward to in the New Year_ it said. And was signed _Argus_.

She parted the paper and looked down at the revealed gift. Silk cords bound into a dark red leather handle, and tipped with sharp silver claws. Clever Mr Filch. It was just what she had always wanted. Her very own cat-o-nine-tails.

End.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Daily Deviant's Kinky Kristmas 2014 to a prompt by amand_r asking for 'Filch and Ubridge bonding over cats. I may have misinterpreted this.


End file.
